


Bare and Mad, I'll Love You Still

by Upupanyway



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Bisexual Foggy Nelson, Bisexual Matt Murdock, Catholic Matt, Coming Out, Dialogue Heavy, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Kissing, M/M, Scars, Soft Porn, Trans Foggy Nelson, having sex with an injury, no plot but it's about love, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26188477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upupanyway/pseuds/Upupanyway
Summary: Ten years into their friendship, Matt and Foggy still had so much to learn about each other. It had to come to a head one of these days.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 111
Collections: Daredevil and Defenders Exchange 2020





	Bare and Mad, I'll Love You Still

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chickenshithypocrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickenshithypocrite/gifts).



> Written for the Daredevil/Defenders Gift Exchange 2020  
> Prompts used: "' _God made me trans._ '- Austen Hartke"  
> and "foggy catches matt self-harming" if you count gross personal negligence to be self harm (which I do)

Matt Murdock was a great handler of many things. He was _superb_ at handling things. He liked to think that he had a handle on most things in his day to day, actually. But when he heard the signature clack of Foggy’s ill-fitting shoes making their heavy-fast and angry way to Matt’s door, he felt like a cornered child with crumbs on his face. He was, frankly, a mess in his undershirt and boxers and bare in the face, and though blood loss made his moves sluggish, he still scrambled for his glasses as soon as he heard the lock turn.

"Hey stranger," Foggy called. His jingling keys made their way back into his pocket. "Any reason there’s blood all over your nice hardwood?"

Sighing, Matt fumbled to find his pants. He braced for a lecture. The shift of a polyester suit told him that Foggy turned his head to avoid looking at what were probably grotesquely pale thighs. They were also mottled with bruises and cuts that he could still feel, not even to mention the layers of scars that have left his hair patchy and uneven; his legs were thankfully still functional, but they weren’t good for much else.

"I had a bullet in my thigh," he explained. He picked something up off of the ground and pulled on the shirt. Foggy flipped the switch, and the low buzzing of his ceiling light started up. He had a theory that it got louder every time Foggy was there, excited to be needed after long periods of disuse. "Any reason you're here?" He found his pants, loose silk pajamas, and tugged them on, careful of his injury.

"Sam came by my place. Told me you were hurt." Foggy’s first aid kit rattled dramatically as he placed it on the coffee table. His friend always had an inkling that Matt was running low on bandaids, and most of the time, he was right.

“I’m _fine_ ,” said Matt, limping only slightly to the couch and sitting down carefully. He didn’t even groan. “I took care of the bullet and yes,” he said, quieting his friend’s argumentative breath, “I got all of it out and I cleaned it before _and_ after stitching it up.”

Foggy sighed at him. Much of his reactions to Matt these days were tired and weary. Matt wanted to change, or at least he wanted to want that. He wanted to be less selfish with his hobbies because Foggy never asked to be roped into any of it.

"Word on the street is that you have a head wound as well,” Foggy said leadingly, touching a small cut on his temple. His fingers almost touched his glasses and Matt had to suppress a shiver.

"Can I at least see the damage?" Foggy asked, soft as anything.

It was, perhaps, a little improbable that, having known each other for over ten years and living together for a good chunk of that time, Foggy had never seen his eyes. Matt had never let Foggy see his eyes. It was too intimate for what they were, and even though Matt trusted Foggy with his life, there was this big gulf in his soul that prevented him from letting Foggy in fully. Perhaps some of it was that Matt wanted some secrets still to himself, perhaps it was petty jealousy that Foggy would always know him better than the converse. Perhaps he wanted to avoid the pity.

Perhaps, in some shameful recess of Matt’s mind, he feared the inexorable disgust Foggy would feel towards him upon seeing him fully. He had chemical scarring around his eyes. It fractured his flesh, melted the shape of his retinas and the texture of his sclera. The scar tissue made his eyes uneven on the best days, singed flesh producing little marks he hadn’t thought possible as a child. He wouldn't be able to bear it, the sharp intake of breath, Foggy’s genuine revulsion.

Foggy would deny any change in their relationship, but Matt would know. Foggy would touch him less, he would find excuses not to look at his face. It would taint their bond like a subtle poison and they’d survive, but only just.

Was there harm in wanting to push Foggy away slower than his natural pace? He could walk out any one of these days, and he didn’t want to give him any more fodder.

“It’s just a cut, Foggy. I cleaned it, and it stopped bleeding on its own.”

“If you’re sure.”

Foggy made neat work of packing up his kit while Matt waited patiently. He wanted Foggy to stay, he always wanted Foggy to stay, but he could never think of any excuses to get him to. He closed his eyes as Foggy stood, and he tensed as the man made an aborted gesture with his hand, as if to touch him. Foggy’s hand fell to his side, though, like it usually did. Matt, like he often did, repressed the urge to finish the gesture for him, have Foggy’s hand on his face, maybe even to kiss it. But Foggy just slid out of reach, and walked away.

It was perhaps a little less ridiculous that they had known each other so long without holding hands. That was an intimate act, after all, and he and Foggy were not an intimate pair. It wasn’t in their nature to be. Not with each other, at least.

That fact didn’t stop Matt from wanting it, though. Just to run his fingers over Foggy’s hands, the delicate bones of his wrist, the plush of his palm. He had imagined those hands in a million different ways, gathering knowledge from the worried touches he so generously offered on the composition of his callouses, the pattern of his fingertips, the warmth of his touch.

He poked at Matt’s forehead, jolting him alert.

“Your yogurt expires tomorrow. You should have some,” he said, placing a cup and spoon in front of him.

“I’m not hungry.”

Foggy breathed in deep and exhaled slow. “Just let me do _something_ for you, buddy. Please. Just one goddamn thing.”

Matt gulped and nodded. He peeled back the lid and mixed up the contents, letting the scent fill his nostrils. Greek yogurt. It was already slightly sour, but not yet rancid.

-

There weren’t a lot of people around whom Matt could fall asleep. Unfamiliar smells and noises put him on edge, and even around those with whom Matt was familiar, it was hard to let his guard down.

Every exception was Foggy, though. Foggy was warm and gentle. He hummed tune-starved lullabies to Matt, brought him blankets when he decided Matt couldn’t put weight on his leg. He placed a pillow so carefully under his head when he started to doze. It was difficult not to bask in his care. It was hard not to love him.

"What are you mumbling over there?" Foggy called from the kitchen, though Matt was still getting used to being conscious. He hummed, or at least, he felt his throat vibrate. His glasses were crooked, and he fixed them.

"Matty? You awake?"

Matt blinked himself conscious. "Yeah," he said, shaking himself. "What time is it?"

"About four in the morning. It's Saturday, by the way, which means I'm taking your bed after this and sleeping until noon."

"Sounds fair." His voice was raspy, and before he could form the sentence, there was a glass of water in his hands and Foggy’s voice at his face.

"Drink up, buddy. You lost a lot of blood. I'm making breakfast."

“Okay,” he said lamely, swallowing his stale spit. He downed the whole glass in one gulp and set it down on his coffee table, where the weight of Foggy’s first aid kit still rattled. Foggy had already made it back to the kitchen.

"What are you making?" he asked, surrendering back to the warmth of his blankets and flopping back down.

"Sausages. I have pancake batter going and smoothies in the fridge. I didn't know anyone could sleep through a blender,” Foggy bantered. That was familiar, and Matt smiled at the ease of it. The ease of being in the same room with Foggy, how full the apartment felt with him in it.

"If I can block out your yammering from across a room, I can block out a blender."

Foggy let out a humoured huff, and Matt kept the feeling of triumph to himself. "Rude. Go back to sleep. I'll wake you up when it's done."

"Anything I can sample?” He didn’t expect an answer, but Foggy, like always, seemed prepared.

“Sure, buddy,” he said. Something cold and cylindrical landed in his hands and Foggy guided his fingers to a straw. Like a baby presented with a nipple, he latched on and sucked.

It wasn't a great smoothie. Chard and kale and peanut butter. A banana for texture and sweetness. Some nutritional supplement. It quelled the raging of Matt’s stomach, enough that he was thankful, though.

"When's the last time you ate? Jesus."

Matt tried to remember. Karen had picked something up for the office. "Lunch?” he answered, already knowing Foggy wouldn’t like it. “The, uh, the bento boxes."

" _Thursday_ ? You haven't eaten since _Thursday_?" Foggy cried, genuinely distraught. Matt winced. The air went deadly and for a second and Matt thought Foggy might hit him. Instead he grabbed the back of Matt’s head and brought their foreheads together. "You're such a fucking idiot, you know that?"

"I was busy," he defended weakly. He fiddled with the straw. Scolding was better than violence, he told himself. Foggy never hit him before, but it felt inevitable some days. He was only ever upset with Matt, it seemed. He kept bracing for it, but then Foggy pulled away and made his way back to where the sausages were charring heavily on one side.

"I know, buddy. I know.” Foggy swore under his breath. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Okay.”

Love is a mutable thing. It was something Matt learned and kept to himself because it felt like a new and precious realization. He felt like it could be beautiful for a lot of people, but Matt was rotten; he couldn’t do anything but pervert the love around him. They inevitably became a twisted facsimile of their happiest days at the beginning of their acquaintance. And he had known Foggy for so long.

They had loved each other once, or at least Matt liked to hope they did. In the way two friends really should have loved each other, wanting the best for the other out of giddy affection. Now, he had Foggy’s attention and worry and not much else. How long had the resentment been festering, how short was Foggy’s fuse by now?

Loyalty isn't an infinite resource, either. That was another lesson he had learned in his too-long life. Loyalty was something that either withered or was beaten out of a person. Or snuffed out in other ways. It was a Murdock constant. He’d been counting the days for years, it seemed.

“On your right,” Foggy called, placing a tray in front of him. Matt set the empty smoothie cup down and found his utensils. “Bon appetit.”

“Thanks, Fogs. I really owe you one.” He forced his mouth to smile at his friend.

“Hey, it’s nothing,” said Foggy, but it sounded dead and empty and Matt hoped it was just the fatigue setting in (and what a rotten thing to hope for).

He waited a beat, but when he realized Foggy wasn’t coming back with his own plate, he fought disappointment. Foggy kept making pancakes. Matt made use of his lonely fork.

“Is it that bad?” Foggy asked when he came back with his own breakfast.

“What do you mean?”

Foggy fretted. “You still have so much on your plate. Is it too salty? Too oily?” He reached over for the plate but Matt took it protectively in his lap.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Okay.”

Matt steeled himself. Words were always more difficult when he was talking about himself. “It really is fine, I was just hoping we could sit down and eat together.”

“Oh,” Foggy said.

“Sorry.”

“No, no. Don’t be.” He swallowed and took another few slow bites of food. Matt took it as his cue to eat as well.

“Can I ask you something?” Foggy asked at last.

It was four in the morning, and Foggy was leaning in his seat. He was tired. When they were freshmen enamoured with recreational drug use like caffeine and alcohol, among other things, queries at four in the morning were joyous. Bubbly and half-formed. Now, it was anything but.

“Sure,” Matt said as casually as he could.

“Do you like me?”

Matt choked. “What?”

“I mean, are we even really friends? You barely speak to me anymore, you won’t even tell me when you’re dying or hurt. Were you even going to tell me you were shot?” he explained, gesturing at Matt’s whole person.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“And you find nothing wrong with that assessment?”

Matt grit his teeth. Perhaps this would be the final day of their friendship. August thirtieth. He would have to mark it on his calendar.

“I just- am I a joke to you?” Foggy continued relentlessly. “Some sucker you’re stringing along to make sure someone finds you when your apartment starts to stink? What exactly am I to you?”

Matt placed his knife and fork on his now empty plate and set it back on the table. “You’re free to go at any time,” Matt reminded him tensely.

“And you’d miss me?”

“Of course,” he insisted. His voice was small in his own ears. He closed his eyes, waiting for Foggy to tell him that this was their last meal together.

But Foggy just sighed and ate his breakfast in tortured silence.

The tension between them used to be different. When they were kids, sometimes the air would fill in such a lovely way, and the pigeons beating their wings would mimic the fluttering of their hearts and Matt could listen, as if in slow motion, as the cars drove by. Matt could have lived in the moments where they might have kissed. What a fool he had been, having the gall to want more.

Foggy finished eating more quietly than he normally would have. He ate in small, measured bites, as if it were a chore to do anything in Matt’s presence. And then, when Matt got up to collect the dishes, Foggy pushed him back down onto the couch with a firm hand and said, “You need the rest."

Matt’s throat was too dry to refute it.

So he lay awake, breathing as slowly as he could to listen to the water run and Foggy’s heavy steps patter around his apartment. He ran the dishwasher, and Foggy took the time to mop the floor and wipe down all his counters. Matt closed his eyes, and imagined him belonging there always.

Some time later, maybe a minute or an hour, he was almost asleep when Foggy sat down next to him, making the couch dip just a little on the edge of the cushion. A thin coat of sweat and exhaustion hung around him, and Matt realized he must not have slept in a long time, but the guilt was a familiar fiend. Foggy’s hand hovered over his face and Matt shut his eyes tighter, heart thundering at what Foggy might do to him in his sleep. His glasses dug into the bridge of his nose and Matt waited for his trust to be betrayed, for their friendship to end, anything.

But instead, his fingers traced along the cut on his forehead so gently that it crushed him.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Foggy said icily. “You fucking idiot.”

And then he was gone, as if nothing had happened and asleep a whole wall away between Matt’s silk sheets.

-

Foggy slept well past noon, but fitfully. He squirmed and whimpered, as if struggling to exist, and for a long while, Matt sat beside him, on the upholstered chair in his room just to be beside him. There was a tinge of cigarette smoke that clung to him, remnants of a habit he only indulged on his worst days, a habit he had given up for Matt so many years ago. A habit Matt was forcing him to reignite.

And when Matt snapped out of his reverie, he thought to pour into something productive for Foggy’s sake, if no one else’s. His friend deserved at least that much.

So he put on an apron and got to work.

“I smell baking,” Foggy said with a yawn a while later. He sounded calmer now, more rested and pliant. “Have you been baking?”

“Sticky buns,” Matt said from his bar, where he was mixing syrupy goop. He turned to face Foggy, smiling hopefully. He sounded happier, and Matt took it as a good sign. “And I’m not skimping on the icing this time, I promise.”

“I hope this means I’m invited to lunch, because I’ll be here even if you’re cooking for a date or something, Foggy said, sneaking a finger into the bowl and sampling the concoction. He hummed appreciatively.

“When have you known me to cook for dates?” Matt said, setting down the spoon and the bowl. He turned to Foggy, fiddling with the fabric of his apron. “No, it’s all yours. I just wanted to thank you for everything-”

“Hey, we look out for each other, right, Murdock?” he asked as he patted Matt on the back and headed into the bathroom. He was already back to being warm and fond towards him. It was a welcome surprise. Matt exhaled. “I’ll be back for the frosting,” Foggy called as the door shut.

“Sure,” Matt told the space his friend had left behind. His timer went off Matt leapt to the attention of the buns in the oven. The tray clattered on his counter, and Matt took the time to sit and breathe.

Foggy didn’t sing in the shower anymore, but on good days, he could be found humming to some happy tune wholly unfamiliar to Matt. Foggy wasn’t humming today, only scrubbing himself with the bar of soap militantly. He had a toothbrush in Matt’s bathroom that Matt never forgot about. It was always put away neatly, in its own holder beside Matt’s. Matt never let himself feel that it was a familiar gesture, only a pragmatic one. But it felt significant that Foggy maintained it as well as his brush back home; he replaced it every three months, and he put it back in his spot neatly when he used it. He was so careful with even the smallest of his belongings, was it any wonder he kept Matt near him this long?

Matt managed to fix up the plates before Foggy was out, fresh and hazy in a cloud of steam and heat. He walked up to the kitchen bar in just a towel.

He had stopped caring about shirtlessness around Matt around second year of their undergrad, after a long summer of not having much time for Matt beyond quick brunches and the occasional walk through the park. He had said he was in and out of hospitals, and he did smell vaguely clinical for the next few years, but he never really specified why. Matt figured it wasn’t really his business. He had sent the relevant “Get Well Soon,” cards and offered to pray for a quick recovery, and Foggy had thanked him, and that was that.

Foggy seemed a lot happier, though, after he was finally out for good. He started joining clubs he wouldn’t tell Matt about. He started going out more, dating more, fucking more. And while neither of them ever ended up exactly popular, Matt remembered how hurt he had been, coming home to an empty dorm, or to the sounds of a stranger making Foggy pant and whimper. He hadn’t wanted to be left behind.

He had been jealous.

He also hadn’t wanted to be the person to stifle Foggy’s newfound confidence, though. Even he wouldn’t dream to be so petty.

And it wasn’t the worst thing in the world that Foggy now hung around him shirtless, or in nothing but a robe. He certainly didn’t want to make him feel as if he had reason not to treat their shared dorm like a home. Matt had certainly thought about it as home, or at least as much of a home a lonely orphan boy could have. It was certainly more lively than his current cold and empty apartment in the heart of downtown.

“What are we having?” Foggy asked, setting down into one of the barstools and grabbing a fork. Matt made his way around the counter to take up the space beside him.

He poured some orange juice into Foggy’s glass. “Eggs in purgatory,” he answered. “And garlic bread. Eat up, pal.”

So Foggy ate. He let out a pleased noise that pinked Matt’s ears. “I love it when you cook,” Foggy told him earnestly. “You should do it more often.” He gave Matt a soft nudge on the shoulder, and Matt’s face smiled of its own accord.

“I will. I'm thinking of doing a duck confit for dinner, if you'd like to join me."

"Three meals together?” Foggy nibbled at the garlic bread. “Haven’t done that in a while. Is there a special occasion? Oh, no, did you get dumped? Who was it? Was she hot?"

His smile thinned. The performative heterosexuality was also familiar. A nervous deflection habit to avoid talking about any real feelings between them. Matt understood. Feelings were so much more daunting to discuss with the object of them. Matt just wished either of them were braver. "You know I've been single. I do try to keep you updated on these kinds of things."

Foggy’s voice softened. "I know. I appreciate it. Are- are you having a bad day? Do you want company to ride it out? You really should just go on antidepressants, you know. It’s really not a big deal to take meds. Hell, I take meds."

"I know. I'm just," Matt hesitated, trying to convey that he was functional in a way that Foggy would believe. He didn't need a health evaluation and, more to the point, he didn't want some stranger probing around in his thoughts. "I can handle this, but I would appreciate it if you were here, is all," he said.

Foggy set down his fork. "Last night," he started slowly, "you said something. You said you like when we eat together?"

Matt nodded. "I did. I do."

"I mean, are you sure? It's been three months since we hung out like this. You never ask me to do things anymore. I figured you’d finally gotten bored of me."

"Oh, Fog. Never. I've been-" Matt took a breath "You’ve been busy with work and whatever else. I know you’ve been hanging out with people who aren’t in my circle. I didn't want to impose."

"And you've been busy getting punched and _shot at_ ,” Foggy accused.

"And I've had less time for social meetings, yes," he agrees. "That doesn't mean I want not to be around you. You’re my best friend, and I love," his heart lurched. Too telling. "I love being around you."

"You've never even shown me your face," Foggy countered quietly.

Matt stiffened.

"Do you want to know why I’ve been busy? I’ve been getting certified first aid training.” 

“Oh,” breathed Matt, both grateful and dismayed that Foggy’s invested so much time and labour into such a lost cause.

Foggy turned away, voice muffled by his hand. “I know you trust me, and I won’t go around taking things from you without your knowledge and consent, but we’ve known each other for what? Ten years? It’s a little weird that I don’t know what you look like.”

Matt swallowed. "I don't know what you look like, either."

"Okay, but that one isn't _my_ fault last I checked," he said drily.

"No, Fog. Come here," said Matt. He reached out for his friend's hand but Foggy flung it back as if he had been burned. "See? You don’t trust me either. I know your hands, Fogs. You've patched me up before. I know you keep your nails really short. You probably bite them. I know you have dry skin. I know you have a scar on your left pinky finger. We haven't exactly held hands but I know them. I just want you to trust me, alright?"

Shakily, Foggy nodded. He scratched at his wrist and then the flesh of his palm. "Alright,” he said at last.

"What?"

"Touch my hands, if they're so important to you."

"They are," snapped Matt, holding a hand out for Foggy to take. "What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not," he lied. He put an unsteady hand on Matt’s outstretched palm but seemed unwilling to close the gap.

Matt took his hand anyway. It was familiar. Broad, with thick wrists. Short fingers. He had thicker hairs below the knuckle. He had a writer’s callus on his middle finger. He wasn’t left-handed, but he used to write notes in lecture with both hands. At first, it was because Foggy had been so charmed by Matt’s left-handedness that he wanted to practice. Then, it became more practical as his right hand sometimes failed to keep up with the depth of explanation and theory. Matt liked knowing that he had been the muse for Foggy’s ambidexterity. He liked that his influence was permanent on Foggy’s body, somehow. 

“Wasn’t so bad, is it?” Matt asked, fingers still tracing the pattern of skin on the palm of his hand. It was surprisingly rough, though it was still much softer than Matt’s. The hands of a man who knew how to do dirty work but never wanted to. “And your other one?”

Foggy breathed deep and replaced his left hand with his right. It came easier this time, and Matt was free to feel every hangnail and pore of that one, too.

Skin was just skin at the end of the day, and it all felt the same, more or less. Knowing it belonged to someone precious, though, it made the touch special. His fingertips were buzzing as Foggy took his hands away.

Quietly, Foggy stacked their empty plates and cups and ran some water over them.

“Thank you,” Matt said softly. He wanted more now that he had a taste of intimacy. He wanted to touch Foggy’s face, map it out. He wanted to feel his neck, his back, his stomach. He wanted to do it with his mouth.

“Sure,” Foggy said evenly. Matt fought not to imagine those fingers laced in his.

Foggy put the dishes away and placed the dish sponge in its holder. "Can I ask something from you now?" he asked haltingly.

Matt felt generous and guilty, which was a deadly combination. "Anything."

"Let me see your face," he requested softly, as if Matt’s refusal might kill him. "Your eyes. I've never- you've never shown them to me."

"Then show me yours," Matt blurted out.

Foggy hummed softly. Matt’s stomach clenched. "Okay. Seems like we have a deal."

Matt turned from the man and he wished for something to fidget with. "Fine," he said. "But you gotta remember I'm not just blind, I'm a chemical burn victim, alright? You can’t say I didn’t warn you."

Foggy reached over the chasm between them and gave his hand a squeeze. “There is nothing you could show me that would make me think you’re any less beautiful, Matt.”

It was a joke, but it caught Matt’s breath anyway. Foggy had always been mouthy, had always diffused a situation with something suggestive so that people could laugh at the notion that Foggy had any sexual appeal. Matt did his part and chuckled, but it came out hollow.

When his staying still became too awkward, he let his hand float over to his glasses and he carefully lifted them, blinking back the sensation of openness and vulnerability. He felt his eyeballs roll, and, yet unprepared for the scrutiny, he rubbed them with the back of his hand. He shook himself before swallowing back the immensity of emotions inside of him and lifted his head to smile at Foggy. He didn’t know if it reached his eyes.

"Well?" he said when Foggy had been silent for too many agonizing moments.

"We knew you were handsome, Matt. What do you want me to say?" Foggy answered easily, as he had done about a million times, about a million of Matt’s insecurities.

Relief surged through him like a dagger. "People find it off-putting," he explained. He tried to control his breathing. "I don't know if this counts as a deformity from injury, but I've been told the whole effect isn't exactly comforting."

"What's not comforting about it? It's my best friend's face." Foggy was perfect, he decided.

"Thanks." Matt smiled. He closed his eyes and breathed in the moment. Why did it still hurt?

He felt suddenly very silly. Once upon a time, the thought that Foggy would find him repulsive gnawed at him. He felt protective of Foggy’s attraction to him like a pipe dream. He had forgotten for ten blissful years that the chances of Foggy wanting to kiss him were slim because if Foggy had ever wanted them to kiss, he would have asked by now. Matt was disillusioned now. Foggy never cared about his looks. Why would he? They were friends ( _only_ friends) and friends didn’t linger on physical, carnal desires for the other. But he had been hurting Foggy by keeping secrets. That was all. Foggy was perfect; Matt had been a pervert and a heel for hurting him all this while.

"What's so funny?" Foggy asked, breaking through to Matt, who hadn't realized he was laughing a little hysterically.

"Nothing," he said, wiping his eyes. "It's just a bit anticlimactic, don't you think? Ten years and you don’t even care."

Foggy placed a hand on his knee. Matt fought the urge to relax into the touch, but then his friend was pulling away, patting him in a friendly gesture. "I care that you trust me, Murdock. It's a big deal, believe me."

Matt swallowed. "Okay, your turn," he deflected, swatting Foggy away and reaching his hands out. Gently, Foggy took them in his and inched them closer to his face.

"Just nothing below the neck, alright?" Foggy croaked as Matt’s fingers finally settled on his skin.

Matt had been blind for as long as he could functionally remember. There was no point in trying to actually visualize his friend. He could take in Foggy's features meticulously and measure their ratios with a caliper but there would always be some final piece to him that he would miss. The way they all clicked together, the way other people would see him. He had already grieved his sight. He would never know the colour of Foggy’s hair in the sunlight, nor the scrunch of his face in deep thought, nor the way his smile might change the glimmer of his eyes.

(When he thought back to his father, his most familiar face, these were the things he thought about. The details that couldn’t be picked up by description. Not everything could be compared, nor should it be. His father’s hair was brownish auburn in a way he never saw in crayon boxes. The lines on his forehead were not evenly placed. The light in his eyes was something he failed to capture even now in his tainted and worn-out memory. He was thankful he never had to see it fade.)

In his deep subconscious, Foggy brought to mind the picture of an old friend of his father's who had run a grocery store near his childhood home named Bill. Perhaps it was the lilt of their voices or the heft of their forms. Perhaps it was the gentle way they both treated Matt, as a friend, first and foremost, and never too stupid or stubborn to entertain. He hadn’t thought of Bill as particularly attractive, but he was happy and untouchable in the way that people tended to be when they had long-since found peace in their lives. Bill was the type of man to think of joy in simple and attainable terms. That, to Matt, was Foggy.

He hadn’t counted on falling in love with Foggy at any point in time. And even when he realized he was sinking into his twisted obsession, he certainly thought he'd be less vain than to value appearances. But he found himself wanting to know what his best friend looked like, just for the sake of knowledge. It was the one thing every stranger could hold over him, that they knew Foggy in a way Matt never would. So, he collected descriptions of Foggy like a crow collected bottle caps, preciously and without regard for their functional value.

The sorts of things he learned weren't all that earth shattering; Foggy was cute, he was short, he had dimples. He had brown hair, and once, a mustache. His cheeks were very pink, and his smile made his eyelashes look longer. Thus was his sparse collection. (He had heard mean things, too, but he discarded them right away. He had no need for those.)

"You have a widow's peak," Matt observed, starting with his hairline. "My dad had one, too." His hair was thick and fluffy. About as long as he had pictured. He had sideburns dense as a forest. "What colour's your hair?"

"Light brown," he said automatically. He was so used to describing. Matt adjusted his mental image. "Not as yellow as blonde, but not as red as yours. I've been greying a little, though."

His cheeks were full and fleshy, hard muscle underneath and harder bone deeper than that. He followed their movement as Foggy spoke. There were fine wrinkles around his eyes, evidence of all the smiles and frowns alike that he had felt so fully that they morphed his face.

"My eyes are blue and a little green. Like a river with lots of algae, if you can picture it."

He couldn't because he'd never been to the ocean as a kid, but he nodded anyway.

His eyelashes were longer than he could have expected, and while he knew Foggy wouldn't admit to it, he imagined the man to be pretty. Doe-eyed with a sparkling expression as he charmed the court and winked at flirty baristas for free muffins. His eyebrows were thin but unmanicured, fluffy at the ends where he knew some women liked to pluck. He ran his fingers in the direction they grew, and then in reverse to fluff them up, fixing them when Foggy started to scrunch his face and wiggle his brows playfully. Ever dutiful, Matt chuckled.

Foggy’s nose was upturned and sweet, with wide nostrils and a little cleft at the tip. He had a bump in the bridge, and it was asymmetrical.

"Have you ever broken your nose?"

Foggy exhaled sharply, but nodded. "Yeah. High school. I told you I was bullied, right?" He laughed the way he did when he was fighting to say something. "I had a girlfriend, but the big kids didn't like us much. They said something and I tried throwing punches. Shoulda known better because I can't fight for shit and it was three against the two of us."

Matt smiled. "And you call me reckless."

Foggy smiled, too, and Matt could feel the way his cheeks lifted his entire face.

His mouth was wide and he had dimples everywhere. One on either side of his face, and one on his chin. His smile faded slowly as Matt took the time to feel around his soft chin and neck, where a tender layer of fat padded the skin. There was the catch of thick, shaven hair starting to grow back, pores still open from the heat of his shower. Foggy held his breath, and Matt found his slack lips, plump and a little cracked, a prominent cupid’s bow. He got the impression that Foggy might have been boyish, with his big eyes and high forehead. He wondered how funny they must seem next to each other, Foggy with his jaunty walk and clear skin and Matt, lean and tall and damaged.

He was pudgy in a charming way, he had heard once from a client who made no effort to hide his attraction. Foggy had repeatedly denied the man and laughed about it later, telling Matt he was probably a chaser with a weird fetish. Matt would have disagreed, but he didn’t like the idea that Foggy might run into the arms of some stranger.

He agreed with the assessment, though. He thought about that man, the way he would so easily flirt with Foggy in casual ways, tell him he looked good in a certain colour suit and make him fluster by noticing when Foggy took the time to comb his hair. He hadn’t liked how easy it was for the man when Matt had struggled for years to make comments about Foggy’s body in any way that didn’t come off as snarky or mean.

(When he was younger, and they were first starting to hug and lean against each other, Matt had panicked at the sheer strength of his feelings for Foggy’s body and he erroneously attributed the reaction as displeasure. He’s not sure if either of them fully recovered. If he could take it all back somehow, he would. His fixation on Foggy’s body made so much more sense after his first confusing dream that left him startling awake to a mess in his sheets.)

(Sexual guilt was also not new to him by that point, so he repressed it. Too well, apparently.)

He moved his hands to trace along Foggy’s soft jaw, the thick tubes of his carotid arteries and his larynx and trachea. He felt Foggy swallow again, and then his fingers found the hair on the back of his friend’s head, a little longer than he liked to keep it nowadays.

“Are you okay?” Foggy asked him. Matt’s eyelids had fluttered closed at some point, and he realized he was leaning into the warmth of Foggy’s breath, chasing it with his face.

“Mmhmm,” was all he managed, drunk with how much more information he had, little things that were both inconsequential and momentous. He tried to catalogue everything before Foggy leaned out of the bubble.

Their foreheads bumped together, and Foggy gasped, breath still intoxicating. “Matty?”

Foggy’s lips were impossibly inviting. He liked the shape of his name on them.

“Matt?” His heart was beating fast. He could feel the pulse on his fingers.

His cheeks were warm. He was making Foggy warm. Foggy shifted in his chair a little, and then Matt was out of his, planting their lips together. Everything was perfect for a second, his sensitive mouth mapping out Foggy’s.

Then his friend brought a shaking hand to his chest and squirmed away. “Matt,” he said again.

“Sorry,” Matt said, realizing what had happened. “I should have asked.”

“You’re- I mean- _Matt_ ,” he said hysterically. “You can’t just kiss people like that.”

“Sorry,” he said again, pulling his hands to his lap and replacing himself in his seat.

Foggy turned away for a silent beat. “It’s not you,” Foggy explained, and Matt wanted to laugh, though none of this was funny.

“Are you breaking up with me?”

“No, Matt, listen, you don’t know enough about me to do that sort of thing. You don’t know what you’re getting into, and it’s not fair to you.”

“Then help me understand," Matt begged. He kept his hands in his lap. "I’m not your enemy.”

Foggy tapped the counter for a second, then twisted the hem of the towel he was still wrapped in. “If it’s just a physical thing, then I’d really prefer not to. You can sleep with literally anyone else and I’m sure you’d be happier for it.”

“It’s not just physical,” Matt said quietly.

“Okay.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. He sounded like it hurt. “Okay, but if you hate it, you have to tell me and you never have to touch me again, alright?”

“I won’t hate it, though,” he insisted. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“I know,” he said like he didn’t believe him. “Just-” he took one of Matt’s hands again, and trembling a little, he guided Matt to his still-bare chest. Matt’s fingertips took the texture in thirstily.

A little lower and Matt’s hand grazed his chest hair, then a nipple. Foggy didn’t budge, though his hold grew tighter. Lower still, to a long scar running across his chest, under a fold of skin. It was still a little damp, but he could still feel that the slightly puckered skin had once been a long wound.

Matt felt his brows furrow. “I don’t understand. Did someone hurt you? What kind of weapon-”

“A scalpel," Foggy said.

“Foggy, did someone do something?” He swallowed hard, feeling a rage course through him. He brought his other hand to Foggy’s chest, too, to find out how long and symmetrical the line was.

“Matty, can you calm down for a second? I have to tell you something and I don’t want it to change us.”

He closed his lips tightly and retracted his hand, still wrapping his mind around it all.

“You know how I told you my parents thought I’d be a girl when I was born? How they picked out such a stupid name for me?”

“Yeah?” he said slowly.

“Well, they thought it for about sixteen years after I was born, too.”

Realization hit him, then. “Oh.”

“Yeah. I never meant to hide it from you, but it was just so nice, having you never question anything. But you never really seemed to think about- about people like me, and I figured maybe you wouldn't like it. I'm sorry I never told you,” he said quickly. “I understand if you don’t want to sleep with me anymore.”

“You thought I’d figure that my being openly bisexual is okay but you being transgender wouldn’t be?”

Foggy laughed again. A nervous tick more than recognizing the cosmic humour of it all. “Well, I never knew you identified that way. And I figured it might have been easier to come to terms with liking boys if you knew marrying a woman would be in the cards for you, but I don’t know your journey,” Foggy huffed. "I know it's not generally liked in the Church."

Matt shook his head. “I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

Something else pressed on him. “Did I do anything to imply that I would be unaccepting?”

Foggy seemed to consider it. “Not specifically. Sometimes you'd say things, though, about how bodies should be respected, about how God doesn’t make mistakes. How people sometimes try to go against His creation and how unnatural it is.”

“Yea,” Matt agreed readily, a little sharp. “I'm not always thrilled about things like genetic experiments with radioactive isotope or people trying to change how the mutants are. It was jarring enough coming to terms with my senses, in case you didn't realize. It was a hugely traumatic moment for me, and I don't think it's right to force people into it. A change in the way one perceives the world or how they interact with it, that stuff shouldn’t be messed with on a whim."

“Once, you said it about surgery," Foggy countered. "I said I didn’t like my chin and you said cosmetic surgery was bad because God made people the way they were for a reason. You said that people shouldn’t mess with God’s vision.”

Matt berated his younger self. Shamefully, it wasn’t exactly a surprise to hear that he said that. He was really stupid back in the day. “Was I drunk?”

“In vino veritas,” Foggy shrugged. “It's not like you could have known what my hospital visits were about.”

“Oh, Fogs, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Do I know that?” His voice quivered just a little and he leaned farther back in his seat.

“I think I tried to mean it as ‘you’re perfect the way you are and you shouldn’t feel like you need to change how you look to feel good about yourself’.”

“Sounds like what my parents used to tell me,” Foggy said softly. He chuckled emptily and went quiet.

Matt shook his head because he liked to believe he was better than that. It was all just coming out wrong. "No, okay, forget what I said as a kid. We both know I'm an idiot. Do whatever you need to feel comfortable. But as someone who loves you, someone who loved you even back then, it was distressing to hear you felt like you needed surgery to feel attractive. Feeling comfortable, being seen how you want to be seen, that's all good stuff, and I'm not going to tell you what to do. But to be more attractive, Foggy? There's no real measure for that because that's different for everybody. I didn't want you to go under the knife for something that you think other people want from you. You've always been beautiful. You have to believe that."

"Thanks, buddy," he scoffed. "But I have to tell you, you're kind of blind, and I've heard otherwise from people who might have a better idea of that kinda thing."

"Are you telling me I can't tell beautiful just because I'm blind?" Matt challenged. "That's pretty ableist."

Foggy faltered. "What?"

"I'm saying," Matt said empathically. He reached out for Foggy’s face again and Foggy melted into the touch. "I'm a fully grown man with a robust but particular libido. If I'm attracted to you, it’s not because I don't know better."

Foggy rapped his knuckles on the counter. "Can I show you something that might change your mind?"

"I dare you."

Foggy gulped and took Matt’s hand again and guided it to his left arm, higher than Matt had felt permitted to touch just minutes before. Now that he was touching, though, he did notice that there was a long scar there, but it was neat, the work of skilled professionals. It was still prettier than anything on Matt’s own body.

"What am I feeling?" he asked. He let go slowly, to process it.

"It's where they took skin so they could make my dick. It's all healed now, but some days it can look pretty gnarly, especially if I’ve been out in the sun. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. It's just kinda normal for me."

"Fascinating," he said. He was almost overwhelmed with new information. A minute ago, he didn't know about the dimple on Foggy’s chin. A minute ago, he didn't know what Foggy tasted like. He hadn’t even thought about the rest of his body and now, he was so curious. He wanted to know. He wanted to know Foggy.

"It was a pretty drastic operation. Spent a lot of money on it, too. I could have gone to Harvard, you know."

He coughed to remain neutral. "I knew you were too smart for schmucks like me."

Foggy chuckled. "Flattery doesn't work on me. I thought you’d have figured that by now. Think about it soberly. I need you to really consider my body and how you feel about it. You should process this."

"I don't need to process this, Foggy. It doesn't change anything. I would still very much like to touch you."

"I feel like I’d be corrupting you.”

"I don't think it's a sin,” Matt told him honestly. It was something he hadn’t even told his priest. “It’s not a sin to do what you have to in order to be happy.”

“Come on, Matt. You can do better than that. What if murder made me happy? What if stealing made me happy? Do you think any court would accept that as motivation for transgressing? I’ve transgressed. I’ve mutilated my flesh. I’ve changed this body with chemicals He didn’t equip me with. He made me a certain way and I disagreed.

"This thing, this body, it wasn't a frivolous decision, and it was more than treating a mental illness. I was never largely dysphoric and it wasn’t something I needed in order to keep living, but seeing bodies like this, it made me covet. This is something I _wanted_. This is something I suffered for wanting, and this is me wanting it enough to bleed. This is my big 'Fuck You' to God for making me how I was before. This is my indulgence."

Matt swallowed. He felt Foggy shifting before him. The sensory input was ever the same, but there was something about him now that Matt couldn’t ignore, like a cut that hadn’t hurt until he realized he was bleeding. It was all he could notice now. "God makes us all unfinished, and we put our own work in. It's a collaboration. You’re so strong, Foggy. I know this won’t bring you comfort, but I think God made you trans."

Foggy scoffed. "God made me trans?" He laughed bitterly. "That's the best you've got? That's like when people tell you God has a plan during funerals. Fuck God's plan. I got called a faggot for fifteen years. I got shoved into lockers and kicked into ditches and my first girlfriend got kicked in the face and spit on because of His fucking plan. I love my community, and if the Almighty loved us, He would let us live in fucking peace.

"So I'm telling you now, you have no idea what it means to accept me. You don't love me because you don't know me, and if you knew me you'd think I was a defect and a heretic."

Matt gaped at him. There were no words that would win him over, no combination of pretty assurances Matt would be able to provide that could make him see himself as he was, as beautiful and loved. "I can still love you," he said. 

“I’m not like you.” Foggy said tiredly. "You’re not just beautiful and pious, you’re fundamentally good."

“And you aren’t?”

Foggy laughed humourlessly. “I’m so goddamn angry all the time, Matt. You don’t know what it’s like.” Matt scoffed.

“Try me.”

“The world is this hostile place, you know? And I’m so small in it. It’s not just the violence. I can't exist without disappointing my parents.”

“Your parents love you,” Matt reminded him.

“They do. Doesn’t mean I don’t disappoint them.”

He smirked. “Then you agree that disagreeing on something has no bearing on if you’re loved?”

“Objection,” Foggy said weakly.

“You’re loved. Please don’t doubt that. I love you, Foggy, and so do a lot of people. And maybe it's the wrong thing to say, but I'm so sure God loves you.

“I don’t know how you decided a blind man would be so shallow as to care much about your body.”

“You’re Catholic, Matt," he said as if Matt had to be reminded. "There are aspects to that belief. You're a Catholic and that means something.”

“I’m a queer. That means something, too." Matt said, because Foggy seemed to forget that Matt had stakes in this conversation. "Sometimes I think that God might love us the way people love each other; imperfectly. Love hurts and is often disappointing, but isn't it also a little beautiful? You never deserved to hurt, but I'm so glad you found a community you can understand and protect. I'm glad you had the ability to do that.

“And don’t forget that I’ve been through my share. I was a chemical burn victim at thirteen. It took my eyes. I had my heart ripped out over and over again, and I have all these scars to prove it. I’ve lost a lot, too, Fogs.”

“And you still trust God?” he asked.

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s shown me the most beautiful things, too. He brought me the power to help people. He gave me the ability to really appreciate his world in ways I wouldn’t have been able to without having suffered. He brought me to you, and he let me read your heart better than anyone else.

“I don’t want to think all of this was random accident or chance. They’re too intricate, too beautiful to think some absent universe doesn't care. _Every good gift, every perfect gift, comes from above. These gifts come down from the Father, the creator of the heavenly lights, in whose character there is no change at all_. I want someone to thank for everything, Foggy. I need to thank someone for you.”

Foggy shook, and salt hit the air. For an agonizing moment, he thought Foggy was crying, but then he howled and Matt shrunk.

“That was corny,” he said at last, when the last of his giggles diffused into his regular breathing. "Did you quote the Bible at me?"

“It was from the heart,” he pouted. Foggy leaned forward to ruffle his hair.

“Okay, I’ll bite. You’re an adult. If courting me is something you feel like you have to do, then go right ahead. I won’t stop you.”

"But you won’t encourage me, either," guessed Matt.

"I didn't say that. It's just- people have been weirded out when I tell them things. Or they _get_ weird about it. Mostly guys. Cis men have this weird fascination with penises and they just assume if it's not like theirs there must be something wrong with it.”

Matt nodded along, focussed. “Does this mean you plan to show me?”

He chuckled again. “Fine. You’ve worn me down. You have to promise not to be weird about it.”

“Why would I be weird about it?”

“I don’t know. You were always weird about my body when we were kids. I thought you’d found out somehow, but I guess not."

Shamefully, Matt had been uncomfortable with the idea of Foggy’s body for a long time back when they first met. He had assumed it had something to do with the lingering smell of processed snacks on his skin or the way his weight would jostle as he walked. He had thought, guiltily, that he was disgusted.

And then Foggy hugged him once. A quick, fleeting thing.

“You used to get all quiet after we touched. Like you had to think about it,” Foggy explained.

Another time, drunk, they were leaning on each other. Foggy was dozing on his shoulder, and it really wasn’t much effort at all to place his arm around his friend's waist, fingers barely grazing his skin where his shirt had ridden up. His skin had been so yielding, so warm. He wanted to sink his hand further, deeper, he wanted to test how much he could get away with.

And he realized that wasn’t a friendly thought. Jolting back at the contact, he toppled them both over, and Foggy’s head had hit the wall with a thick thump. And Matt was left to think.

Foggy continued past Matt’s heating face. “Or you didn’t like it.”

“Thirty years on this planet and you still don’t know attraction when you see it,” Matt laughed, embarrassed for himself. He was deflecting. He knew this.

“Is that what that was?" Foggy teased. "Because then you started telling me to lose weight.”

Matt wanted to punch himself. “I’m sorry. I just- I was working through some things,” he said. He drank some orange juice, the kind with added sugar, for Foggy’s sake. It was sweet and sickly, like how it had felt being around Foggy for the first few years of their acquaintance. He rubbed at his face, willing the heat to dissipate.

“Was that you trying to flirt?” his friend laughed. Oh, how Foggy loved to bully him.

“That was me trying not to think about flirting with you, I think.”

Foggy laughed again, louder this time, and it cleared Matt’s mind of every other thought. He couldn’t help but laugh along.

“Alright, take your shirt off, we’re doing this properly.”

Matt froze, but Foggy was already making his way over to the couch.

“Bedroom?” he suggested instead.

"Okay," Foggy agreed easily. He sauntered through Matt’s familiar apartment and sank languidly on his silk sheets. The bed frame creaked under his weight and Foggy’s knuckles hit the headboard. He was splayed out like something to be devoured.

It was darker in the room. His curtains were usually drawn, more for privacy and to block out the heat. It was a comfort, unfair as it was, that Foggy wouldn't be able to see him as well. Every other time Foggy had seen him in any state of undress, his body had upset the man. He didn't want that now.

"Turn the light on, silly," he said as soon as Matt’s shirt was off.

All Matt could do was sigh. He felt up his walls for the switch he seldom used. The lights flicked on and hummed as the circuits got used to working.

“Matty?”

He tensed. “Yeah, Fog?”

“How long ago was there a giant hole in your back?”

Matt closed his eyes and said a quick prayer that Foggy wouldn't leave.

He knew it looked disgusting. It dipped grotesquely, a chunk of his flesh concave as it would remain forever. Foggy hadn’t even noticed the slashes. He hadn’t yet seen the pockmark paths of his stitches. “A while ago, Maybe a few months?”

“Can I touch it?”

No, he wanted to say. The fewer reminders of his hobbies there were, the longer this would last, he thought. Instead, he willed himself to pull away from the wall and sit at the edge of the bed, where Foggy was waiting for him.

And he let himself be touched, featherlight poking at the worst of the skin, healed over and over like there was a cancer unwilling to yield or destroy him.

“It’s not like I like it, either,” Matt said quietly, and Foggy reached down and took a hand in his.

“What are these?” Foggy asked fearfully, carefully touching the ugliest scars at his wrist.

He had nearly forgotten about those. “They’re from forever ago. Don’t worry about them,” he said.

“Did I know you when you were-?”

“Dear God, no!” He took his hand back and brought his knees up to his chin. He wrapped his arms around them.

He didn’t have any clocks that ticked in his apartment, but there were so many in the building, all a little out of sync. He counted forty individual ticks in ten seconds. It was too much all at once.

“It was when I first became blind. I had a hard time focussing on anything, so I used it to ground myself. Not every day or anything, and I never really meant to hurt myself with it. It just helped at the time.”

“And you’re better now?” Foggy asked, small.

“I’m better now,” he promised.

Foggy shifted in the bed, and for a moment, he worried that he would leave. Instead, he lay himself down on the far side of the bed and curled up under the covers.

“Lie down with me," he said.

“You were just sleeping.”

“Emotional vulnerability made me tired. Come on, I think we both deserve a cuddle.”

“Alright.” He entered from the other side of the bed, meeting Foggy in the middle. They breathed into each other’s faces for a second before Foggy took the initiative and pressed their chests together. Soft arms enveloped him.

Their bodies were different. Foggy’s flesh squished and molded in places Matt’s didn’t. He was fat. It was soft and warm, and Foggy had never kept that a secret. The textures, though. He hadn’t thought about the myriad new textures that would open up to him if they were ever to do this. The prickle of his hair, his net of stretch marks, his scars, his cellulite.

“This is okay, right?” Foggy asked, and Matt regained his faculties enough to realize Foggy’s hands were on his ass, under the fabric of his underwear.

“You’re free to touch anywhere you want,” Matt said, grinning at the feeling of heavy palms groping him. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you rubbing up against my thigh.”

“I wasn’t rubbing up against anything, you pervert. I was just trying to get comfortable,” he defended weakly.

“Sure,” Matt retorted, grabbing Foggy’s offending member. “Don’t mind me. Just getting comfortable.” Foggy laughed at him.

“Comfy yet? Might have to move around a little more," he retorted.

“Subtle.”

Matt rolled them over, letting Foggy straddle him. It was selfish, really, wanting Foggy on top just to feel the weight of him. His leg was still healing though, and anything too strenuous would probably be a bad idea.

It wasn't a loss though. He spent time feeling up Foggy's thighs and up to his waist. His hands slid to Foggy’s stomach, and down the trail of hair to his cock, lying flat and flaccid on Matt's chest.

“Did you help design this?”

“More or less,” he confirmed, lifting higher so Matt could kiss the tip if he wanted to.

“I didn’t know you were so vain.”

“I was 23, in all fairness. Told the surgeon to go ham. Turns out I had a lot of skin to work with and she was really excited.”

Experimentally, Matt leaned down and gave it a lick, stroking with his left hand. “What does it feel like for you?”

“Good,” he replied eloquently, rolling even closer to splay his dick over Matt’s face. It was heavy and thick. He opened up to take it in his mouth, not to suck but to feel.

It was slight, but he could just feel the seam where he had been carefully sutured together. It felt almost like a vein, but it was fainter, and he couldn’t feel a pulse coming from it.

“I kinda want to fuck your mouth, buddy," Foggy said.

“Yeah?” He pressed the skin to his cheek to feel the warmth of it there.

“There’s a- I can get hard, if I want.”

“You don’t have to. I’m fine with this if you are.”

“Is it too weird? Too Frankenstein?” Foggy gulped, nervous about Matt’s reaction.

“No,” Matt said quickly. “Just that we can take things slow. I’m not exactly looking to get railed, and if this feels good, I don't see why you have to mimic cisgendered arousal.”

Foggy hummed, ostensibly satisfied.

“Get in my mouth any time you want, buddy. But kiss me first, yeah?” Matt requested.

“You really want all that tender stuff?” Foggy grabbed some of Matt’s hair and ruffled it up before patting it back down.

“If that’s something you want.” He let his hands move back up Foggy’s flank, his back. He wanted to dig his hands in and keep him there, his lively and pulsing body above Matt’s, his steady weight on him. His scent everywhere.

Foggy grabbed for his hand and kissed it slowly. He pressed it to his soft chest, over the scarring there, over his heartbeat. “It sounds a little like you want to.”

“I do,” he confessed. “I really do. Will you kiss me? Please?”

Foggy laughed, leaning his face down, shuffling back to rest his hips on Matt’s dick, leaning over with his hands on either side of Matt’s face.

“Kiss me.” Matt buried his hands in Foggy’s hair.

“I don’t know if you want it enough.”

“Please just kiss me, you insufferable tease.”

Foggy hummed before leaning down carefully. With a fistful of Matt’s hair, he yanked him to the side and licked a stripe just under his jaw to the soft skin behind his ear, sending a shudder down his spine. He nibbled down his neck.

“Jesus, Fog, just get on my dick or kiss me already.”

And then his lips were finally on Matt’s. His mouth was intoxicating, so vast and soft. Velvet tongue, plush cheeks, full chin. He got lost in it, the expert movement of his body, still clumsy in ways he had imagined him being. He helped Matt out of his pants and then their mouths were locked again, and Matt found his legs spreading to accommodate Foggy.

They kept kissing as Matt locked his ankles with Foggy’s, and then it was his hard dick trapped between the flesh of his own stomach and Foggy’s infinitely welcoming body. He found other things to explore. His tattoo on his left shoulder hadn’t healed quite right and it left little bumps in sparse lines. There was a mole on his back, dimples where his fat met scapulae. A gorgeous line down his back where his spine arched and uncoiled as Foggy thrust into him, bisecting his body in symmetrical portions. His hips were wide and generous like his thighs. His ass, a work of art, was dimpled and striped so intricately he felt he could lose hours learning its topography.

And Foggy kept fucking his mouth with his dextrous tongue. It was obscene, the way he tickled the roof of his mouth, how he bit at his already swollen lips just hard enough to let it stretch and pull between his teeth, how he lay his tongue flat on Matt’s who drank in how it tasted to be claimed, to finally be claimed by this man. Sloppy and open and wet, he was dizzy from the sensation, and maybe the lack of oxygen between them. He grasped at Foggy’s ass, wanting him illogically closer though they were already touching everywhere. He pinched and Foggy let out a yelp, bucking his hips and sending their bodies rocking harshly against the headboard.

Matt pulled away to chuckle at the ridiculous picture they made, two sweaty men going drunk from kissing and a little frottage. The sound came out breathy and dazed. Giddy in a way he didn’t think himself capable of.

Foggy laughed, too. His face was warm, and they were both panting hard.

“You wanna get off, Matty?” he asked, already coming down from the thick of it, dropping his forehead onto Matt’s and bringing his hands down to Matt's hips.

Matt nodded, not yet trusting that his mouth could form real words.

Foggy laughed dazedly, spitting into his own palm and gathering the precum on Matt’s stomach to stroke him, slow and agonizing.

“Top drawer,” Matt gasped, tapping his bedside table with a knuckle. “I have lube.”

“Always ready to go, huh?” Foggy tried to tease, but he sounded heavy and hungry. Delicious. He heard the drawer open and Foggy rummaged inside before procuring his shamefully empty bottle. “Been getting busy lately, Murdock?” Foggy gave it a good shake before popping the cap.

“Not-not with other people,” he admitted, shifting in his pillows.

“Explains the rosary I saw in there.”

Matt rubbed at his face. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” challenged Foggy.

Determined, Matt sat up to steal the bottle, squirting the last of it onto his hand and tossing it in the direction of his garbage bin. It bounced off the wall and onto the hardwood.

“You’re picking that up later,” Matt told him. Foggy laughed again, and Matt took his frankly comically large penis and got to work. “And your huge fucking cock. Jesus Christ, you’re ridiculous.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m a shower, not a grower.”

"Funnily enough, it doesn’t." It was admittedly a little strange, not to have the member respond like he was used to having one respond. Still, Foggy was breathing heavy and getting warm, letting out little moans. "How're you doing?"

"Great," he said. He let out a hitching moan. "Keep going. It's more sensitive here," Foggy told him, guiding his hand and jerking himself off with Matt’s palm.

With a huff, Matt batted him away to figure it out on his own. He drew forward to kiss Foggy again, just a peck, before sinking down to sniff at the base of his neck. He smelled so thickly of arousal. His pulse was some animal drumbeat, some lovers' dance in a prehistoric savannah before humans even thought to start singing to each other in hymns and poetry and love songs.

Foggy came, shuddering. He was still pressed up against Matt, and he could feel every little tremor that went through him.

"You're quieter when you fuck," Matt observed after a while. He patted Foggy’s shoulder to get him to move, and the man flopped lazily into the silk sheets. Matt found Foggy’s discarded towel at the foot of his bed and wiped at the slick on his hand.

"And you’re so submissive."

"Am not,” he said, fully aware of his ego.

Foggy laughed again. Matt could swear it was clearer every time. There were no more secrets between them and it felt good. "Matty, I'm so tired," he said dramatically, wrapping a hand around Matt’s neglected dick. "Wanna jerk yourself off for me?" He squeezed, just a little, and Matt’s hips involuntarily bucked up to chase the sensation. "Good boy."

Matt frowned and slapped the man away, taking himself delicately in his own hand. "I swear to God-"

"Blasphemer."

"Alright that's it, I'm aiming for your hair."

Foggy laughed. Matt lunged forward and pinned him down by the shoulders despite the giggled protests and the searing pain in his wounded leg. He blew raspberries into Foggy’s skin making him squirm and kick and slap Matt on the back.

"Ow."

"Let me do you," Foggy said generously, reaching under Matt to play with his balls.

Matt failed to stifle a groan. "Okay,” he agreed hastily. He was starting to ache from being overworked. Foggy seemed to understand immediately, and he started stroking him, slow and steady and sure.

“Tell me what you need, buddy, I got you.”

“Hold me,” he said desperately.

Foggy let out a soft huff, maybe an aborted chuckle. He guided Matt down onto his side, wrapping his arms around him from behind. One arm gave Matt a plush pillow, and the other massaged him gently. Foggy’s torso was warm weight behind him as Matt fucked slowly into his hand. With every move, Foggy was there, his soft flesh at his back, his tight hand waiting for him with every thrust of his hips.

When he was close, Foggy scooted even closer still, boxing him in between his cock and his hand, tanging their legs together and peppering kisses to the nape of his neck and in his hair. He quickened his hand and Matt was vaguely aware of the vulgar noises leaving his mouth, but he was so much more focussed on the musculature of Foggy’s calloused palm. He clutched at the sheets, Foggy’s side, his ass, his arm, anything that would give him some more purchase, more friction.

And then Foggy licked him wetly in the soft spot between neck and shoulder, snuck a knee between Matt’s legs to rub at his taint, his balls, and it sent him over in warm rolls, coming again and again, as if his body knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with just a fleeting sensation, he had to live in it.

He was just thinking that he was irrevocably in love with this man when Foggy slipped his soiled fingers into Matt’s unassuming mouth.

“Gross,” he sputtered, as Foggy laughed at him and sat up to wipe his hand on their ruined towel.

“I feel like that’s deserved.”

“You’re so mean to me, Fogs,” he pouted, and Foggy gave him a kiss on the cheek.

It was still only midday, about 3 o’clock his clock told him. He had nothing else he wanted to do that day. He felt accomplished, as if a great milestone had been reached, and he was satisfied that he had been sufficiently productive for the rest of the year, perhaps the rest of his life. Foggy was in his bed. Foggy had kissed him.

A towel hit him hard in the chest. “What are you smiling for all goofy like that?”

“Was I smiling?”

“Like a loon,” Foggy said, kissing him on the mouth. “Come on, let’s go get cleaned up before we get really gross.”

“I don’t wanna.” The room smelled divine. It would be a shame to leave it.

“Hygiene, Murdock. I’ll let you sniff my pits later or whatever it is that gets you all riled up.”

He rolled over and buried his face in Foggy’s spent crotch. He kissed his still-lubed flesh and inhaled deeply. “This is fine.”

“At least let me take a leak.”

“You’re gonna make me shower.”

“You’ll have to follow me and find out, huh?” Foggy tried to squirm out from under him but Matt held on tighter.

“Two more minutes,” he begged.

Foggy sighed, beleaguered and fond in a way Matt didn’t deserve. “Two more minutes,” he ceded. And he relaxed his shoulders and ruffled Matt’s hair. He drew shapes into Matt’s mottled flesh and Matt felt himself dozing to it.

His body was in a mediocre state, objectively speaking, but everywhere that Foggy touched became hallowed. He felt himself become a better person everywhere. He was kinder, he was calmer, he was well. Foggy healed him with his hands. Life sprang back into his sore and aching muscles, and he knew that he was loved.

**Author's Note:**

> Would you believe that I started writing this with the intent to make it between 2k and 3k and then I realized that they had a lot to discuss?  
> The verse mentioned is James 1:17 CSB
> 
> Also I'm not of the opinion that trans people need surgeries or hormones to be trans, nor do I believe in a strict gender binary, but I think Foggy in this story presents (particularly around Matt) as a very binary trans man. Also, he probably had a ton of grant and scholarship money entering law school that he thought, fuck it, let's get all the surgeries.
> 
> [My tumblr. please say hi](https://artbymintcookies.tumblr.com/)


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